


Like Your Gun

by Mekina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Underage - Freeform, Underage Character, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mekina/pseuds/Mekina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't happening. He's not standing in front of his suicidal older brother trying to talk him down, into revealing what's driven him to this. They should be out taking a drive in the Impala, or watching crappy TV, crammed together on the saggy old couch, Sam's feet in Dean's lap. Anything but this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Your Gun

Sam hadn't expected to be let out of school early, but he isn't complaining. Normally he likes school, but this is a new town, and they won't be here long. Dad is gone, but he's going to be back in a few days, then they're going to be dragged off to some strange town, and he'll be playing the role of new kid yet again. No point in getting settled or trying to make friends. He learned long ago it's pointless.

So he doesn't mind when the teacher of his last period finally has a breakdown, and the principal throws his hands up and sends them all home.

Dean won't be expecting him home, but that's alright. Sam will surprise him. Maybe they can go out somewhere. Not that there's many places to go in this backwoods town, but maybe a couple of beers and a drive out onto that old road. Dad wouldn't want Sam drinking, but he's sixteen, and Dean's a little more lenient. (Mostly it's just he can't say no when Sam pulls the puppy eyes.)

He just hopes Dean hasn't taken advantage of his absence by bringing a girl home. He's done it before, and it would be incredibly awkward, walking in on them. Maybe they would even be having sex on the couch, right where he would see as soon as he stepped inside.

He wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans, telling himself he absolutely doesn't want to see that. No way does he want to see Dean fucking some girl. Not even if there's a chance he could watch without being seen. He doesn't want that.

Sam unlocks the door and steps inside when he reaches their current shithole of a house. The living room is empty and silent, but Sam's not worried. Dean wouldn't leave without leaving a note when he knew Sam would be home soon. He's probably in their bedroom.

Technically, when Dad is away, one of them could take his room and they'd both have their own space, but there's an unspoken agreement _not_ to do that. It would just feel weird to sleep in Dad's bed. And anyway, Sam would never say so, but he's pretty sure he wouldn't be able to sleep without Dean snoring two feet away.

Their bedroom door is ajar; Sam pushes it open, then drops his bag in shock. 

Dean's on his bed.

Dean's on his bed and he's holding a gun.

Holding a gun shoved into his mouth.

_With his finger on the trigger._

Sam freezes up in shock for a split second (Dad would be angry, can't afford to hesitate for a single second), but he must make some kind of noise because Dean's eyes, previously squeezed tightly shut, fly open.

The safety's off, Dean's finger was on the trigger, his eyes were shut and he was bracing himself to do it. Thank fucking God that Sam walked through the door when he did.

If he'd been a second slower-

If he hadn't been let out of school early-

He presses a hand to his mouth, bile rising in his throat. He swallows it back down, disgusting acid taste lingering. If he had come home at the normal time, Dean would have done it. Pulled the trigger.

His big brother would have been nothing but a body and blood and brains all over the room.

Dean's eyes, locked on him, are wide and guilty, but he hasn't moved.

"Dean." Sam's surprised he can talk at all. "Dean, what are you _doing_? What the fuck are you DOING?!" Demanding answers is good. For one, he's confused as fuck, and for another, Dean will have to actually take the gun out of his mouth to respond.

There's a second where he thinks Dean might not answer. That he'll go ahead and blow his brains out anyway. But slowly, his arm moves. He lowers the gun to rest in his lap, so slowly Sam wants to scream. "Sorry, Sammy." His voice is hoarse, like he's been crying. No, sobbing. Fuck. "You weren't supposed to be here yet."

"You mean I wasn't supposed to come home in the middle of your attempted suicide. I was supposed to find you after. Find your _body_ , Dean. What the fuck were you thinking? You want me to find that? You know Dad isn't here. What are you doing?" He wants to run to Dean's side, shake him, slap him, hug him so tight he can't breathe. No sudden movements, though, because Dean still has the loaded gun, and he might still use it.

Sam's not afraid for his own safety. His brother would never hurt him. He's worried Dean will hurt himself. Dean's always put Sam and Dad's well being ahead of everything, including his own. He doesn't have a thought in his head for looking after himself. Just their father and Sam. 

He wants to kill Dad for drilling that into Dean's head sometimes.

"I wasn't. Didn't think about after." Dean's staring at the gun now like he's never seen one before. "Probably should have waited until Dad was here. He could find me instead of you. Sorry. I'm sorry, Sam."

Dean was (still is) on the verge of ending his life, and he's apologizing for not waiting until their dad would find him instead after the deed was done? Sam feels suddenly, dangerously, on the verge of tears. "Dean, why? Tell me. I need to know." He's never seen any signs of depression in Dean, or any suicidal tendencies. Maybe he's just been hiding them. "Whatever it is, this isn't the answer. I'll help you, Dean, we'll get past whatever it is." 

He'll say anything, promise anything, whatever he has to do to get that gun away from Dean and his arms around his brother.

"I can't. I can't tell you. I don't want you to hate me. Rather die than have you hate me." Dean's rubbing his thumb slowly along the side of the gun. It's making Sam nervous. "There's no cure for this, anyway. I'm just a sicko."

"I'm sure it's not that bad." Dean laughs mirthlessly. It's a horrible sound, one Sam's never heard before, and one he hopes he never hears again. "Dean, it can't be that bad. Nothing could ever make me hate you. Nothing, I swear."

"This could. There's no one more important than you. And I couldn't stand you hating me. I'd, well, die."

This isn't happening. He's not standing in front of his suicidal older brother trying to talk him down, into revealing what's driven him to this. They should be out taking a drive in the Impala, or watching crappy TV, crammed together on the saggy old couch, Sam's feet in Dean's lap. Anything but this.

For the first time in years, Sam wishes his Dad would burst through the door, with just the right words to get Dean to drop the gun.

Dad would know what to say.

Sam can research better than Dean or Dad. He's fast and good with a knife, and even if he can't charm a girl, he can still shoot a werewolf or salt and burn a ghost.

He doesn't have the words for this, though.

What's he supposed to say?

"I'm telling you, nothing could make me hate you. Even if whatever is bothering you is awful, how would you know I'd hate you if you never tell me?" Dean's just shaking his head. Sam presses his lips together in frustration. "Please! Just tell me!"

"I've tried and tried to pretend I don't actually feel it," Dean starts suddenly, muttering like he thinks Sam will be unable to hear. "Told myself it wasn't like that. The dreams were just freaky dreams, and not anything I actually want. Haven't you noticed I've been with more girls than usual? Thought if I got laid more they'd go away." 

He hasn't noticed anything of the sort. Dean's a flirt, a bit of a manwhore. He sleeps with tons of chicks. Sam's never counted. Watched jealously from afar, when he's had the chance to be a creeper, but never kept track of them. "Why?"

"I love you, Sam." 

It's a shock to hear the words. Sam knows that Dean loves him. Of course he does. But it's not something anybody in their family says. "Yeah. I love you too, Dean." The words are foreign, awkward coming out. He means them, but saying them aloud isn't something he's used to.

He used to say it all the time when he was a little kid, and not just to Dean. To Dad as well. But gradually they both started acting uncomfortable with the affection as Sam got older, especially Dean. They stopped sharing beds when Sam was fifteen. Up until then they'd get motel rooms with two beds, and Sam and Dean would cram into one, squashed up together. Dean just woke up one morning and said he wanted his own bed.

Sam was glad they'd started sleeping in separate beds, because right around that time he'd started having dreams starring Dean, naked, doing all kinds of things that made Sam blush in the light of day to think about.

Dean's raised the gun again, looking at it like it's the answer to all his problems. "No, I-" he chokes on the words for a second, like he can't get them out. "Fuck, Sammy, I'm in love with you! I'm a sicko that jacks off thinking about fucking his little brother." He sees Sam gaping at him like a fish out of water and nods, like something's been confirmed. "'m a freak. I know. Go hang out in the park or something."

To give Dean time to off himself. No way in hell is Sam going to let that happen. "You, what, you're in love with me?" He can hardly process it. Dean loves him, he wants him.

He wants him, wants him like Sam wants Dean.

A high pitched, borderline hysterical laugh bubbles out. Sam can hardly believe it. He's been through such denial, trying to press it down, pretend he doesn't have lustful thoughts about his brother. 

Dean jerks like he was slapped, hurt flashing across his face. "Sam, just go. Please, just go out somewhere." He's pleading, clearly desperate for Sam to leave so he can off himself.

"I didn't laugh because I think it's funny," he rushes to reassure Dean, trying to repair whatever further damage he's done. "I don't, I'd never think it was. It's just, this whole time both of us were going through shit, thinking we were alone, but all the time, we felt the same." Dean's looking at him in disbelief. "I feel exactly the same, Dean, I'm," he hesitates, because he's never said it out loud, not even to himself. "In love with you. I really am. I want you."

For one brief moment Dean's mouth opens in surprise, like he's hardly daring to hope, but then he just shuts down. Goes completely blank. "Yeah. I appreciate it, Sam, but I can read you like a book. I know you're trying to help, but you could never be as fucked up as I am." He half turns away, gun going out of Sam's sight.

He doesn't like not being able to see it. His palms are sweaty again. Goddamn it! Dean thinks he's lying to get him to toss the gun away. It must have been his pause that Dean misinterpreted. 

Plus, of course, there's the fact that Dean thinks he's so perfect and innocent, that Sam would never be so filthy as to dream about sucking his brother's cock.

"Dean, I swear I-"

"Just stop. Don't."

He steps back, sinks onto the edge of his bed. At the very least he's confident that Dean won't pull the trigger with him in the room. Probably not.

No, he's almost positive Dean won't.

It seems that revealing his own feelings for Dean isn't going to work. At least not now. After he's gotten the gun away from Dean and they've both calmed down a bit, then he can work on convincing his brother he's telling the truth.

More important things now.

Sam goes for another tactic, one that's never failed. He appeals to Dean's protective side. "Okay, so you shoot yourself. What happens to me? Huh?" Standing, he moves until he's in front of Dean, so he can make eye contact. "Dad won't be home for days. If you're dead, who's gonna look after me?" He's sixteen, actually, he can look after himself, but Dad and Dean don't think so, and he's just going with it. Right now, as far as he's concerned, without Dean, he'd slowly starve. "You're going to leave me by myself in the house with your body and limited money?" That doesn't seem to do much so, hating himself a little, he adds, "What kind of big brother are you? You're supposed to protect me, this isn't protecting me! You know what this would do to me?"

_I'm sorry,_ he thinks, _Oh god, Dean, I'm so sorry._ He sounds like Dad, and he hates himself for saying this, but anything to keep Dean breathing. As long as he's alive Sam can apologize and do everything necessary to make this better, but there's no building a corpse's confidence.

"I stopped being a good big brother the second I started wanting to touch you, Sammy. That's nowhere in the definition of good brother. You'd get over it...eventually." Dean doesn't sound terribly convinced with that last part, like maybe he's actually thinking about the damage this would cause. Progress.

"It's not just me, either." Sam draws in a deep breath. This is the last card he has. If this doesn't work, he doesn't know what to do. Dean's protective side is clearly telling him he'll do a better job protecting Sam by killing himself. What about his loyalty to Dad? "What about Dad, then? You think he wants you to do this? It would kill him, Dean. He's already lost Mom. You'd cause him so much pain...you want to put him through that? Is that being a good son? Seems like exactly the opposite to me, Dean." He's forced his voice to turn harsh, doing his best to guilt Dean into giving up the gun. "Whatever good you've convinced yourself ending your life would do, it will do a hundred times more harm. We need you. I need you."

Dean has bowed his head at some point during the tirade. When Sam finishes, waiting breathlessly, Dean nods slowly. "Okay. Fuck, okay, I get it." Laughing humorlessly, he puts the gun on the bedside. "I'm a fuckup no matter what I do."

The instant the gun leaves Dean's hand, Sam is on him, driving him back onto the bed, holding him as tightly as he can. "I'm sorry, Dean, I didn't mean any of that, I'm sorry, so fucking sorry," he babbles helplessly into Dean's shirt, repeating _sorry sorry sorry_ over and over. He's shaking all over. Dean rubs circles on his back, stroking his hair with his other hand, offering comfort without even thinking about it. It's only then Sam realizes he's crying. He was so close to losing Dean, if he'd been one second later in coming home, if he'd said one wrong thing, that would've been it. Dean would've been gone.

He's come close to losing Dean before during hunts. It never gets any easier. This time, knowing he almost lost him by Dean's own hand, it's somehow worse. He presses closer to Dean, tightening his arms around him. The physical contact helps, reassures him that, at least for now, Dean is still alive, still here with him.

They stay like that for awhile, Sam's tears slowly drying up, to his relief. It's ridiculous, anyway. Why the hell is he crying?! Dean's the one that almost died!

Dean starts squirming suddenly, tugging at Sam's arms, trying to get free. Confused, Sam hangs on tighter. He's not letting Dean get away from him, not yet. Then he feels it, and freezes up.

Dean's hard, erection pressing against Sam's belly.

"See what I mean?" Dean turns his head away when Sam lifts up, trying to catch his eye. "I'm a sick fuck. You're just looking for comfort, and I'm. I'm fucking turned on!" His voice is heavy with shame and disgust. "Hate me now? Wouldn't blame you." 

Unwinding one arm from around Dean's neck, Sam grips his chin and turns Dean's head, looking him straight in the eye, letting him see the truth as he says, "No. I told you I couldn't ever. Nothing would make me, not this, not anything." He waits, seeing Dean finally believe.

"But why? Sam, look at me. You're my little brother. You're underage, and you're upset, and I have a fucking hard-on! How are you okay with this?" 

"I'm okay with it because I'm just as sick as you are. No, listen," he says sharply, holding Dean's head in place as he starts to shake it. "I know you think I was just saying it to talk you down, but I meant it. I really, really meant it. I love you, Dean. I really do feel this way. I have since I was fifteen."

"You don't-"

"Don't tell me how I feel! I think I know better than you." Frustrated, Sam presses Dean into the bed, getting up in his face to brush their lips together. Now that his initial relief has faded, he's angry. Angry with Dean for trying to kill himself, for not believing him when he tells him he wants him, for having zero self worth. Angry with himself for not being able to get through his brother's thick skull.

Sam has kissed people before. A few girls. He's not terrible at it, he knows that, but he's sure Dean is better. Dean could probably turn him into a mewling mess just with kisses.

Not that he's ever going to find out; Dean is absolutely still beneath him, body stiff and dick even stiffer, lips firmly closed against his coaxing tongue. Even more frustrated, Sam raises up a little so he has room to reach between them and rub Dean through his jeans. Dean lets out a startled moan, lips parting for one perfect second, just enough time for Sam to get a taste, before he's shoving Sam off.

Sam lands just to the side. Dean scoots away, to the end of the bed, eyeing Sam warily. "Dean?"

"I can't do that, Sammy. I just, I can't. I won't do that to you. Doesn't matter what you say, you're only sixteen, you don't know what you want! Maybe you think you want me, but it's just my feelings influencing you."

That's the biggest load of crap Sam's ever heard. "Right, 'cause you're so old and wise! You're only four years older than me, and I'm sixteen, not five. I know what I want. I want you." 

Dean protests as Sam advances, but he doesn't stop him when Sam kisses him again, fiercely, nipping his bottom lip to get him to open his mouth. Fucking finally, Dean gives in, kisses back, gripping Sam's shoulders as he sucks hungrily on his tongue.

He was right. Dean's a fantastic kisser, and Sam melts into him, doing his best to not seem like an inexperienced virgin. (Which he is. Well, a virgin. But he's not totally inexperienced. He's never gone farther than kissing, but that's something, right?) Sam can't hold back his unhappy whine when Dean stops kissing him, leaning back to stare steadily at him.

"This is wrong," he says hoarsely. "Wrong, and illegal, for more than one reason."

"Maybe."

"There's no maybe about it. You're my brother, and you're underage. It's _wrong_."

"I'm sixteen, that's the age of consent," Sam says impatiently. All he wants is to kiss Dean again, be as close to him as he physically can.

"It's eighteen in this state." Dean smirks a little at Sam's surprised expression. "That's important to know. I don't want some girl's parents getting me arrested for having sex with a minor. So besides the fact that we're related, there's your age."

"Let's get in the car and drive across the state line, then! I know we're brothers, you think I could forget for a single second? Don't say that like I don't already know. I don't care, I just want you. You feel the same way, I'm not seeing a problem here."

Letting him go entirely, Dean stands up, putting as much space between them as he can in the small room. "You're not seeing a problem?! Are you fucking kidding me? It's wrong. It's bad, and sick, and fucking wrong! Why do you think I had my goddamn gun in my mouth? Because I wanted to see what it tasted like? I hate myself, and I hate feeling this way, and I swore, I fucking swore to myself that I'd never touch you. I made myself a promise. I can't do that to you." He's yelling by the end, face red from a mixture of anger and shame. "It's sick, this entire situation."

"You'd only be giving me what I want."

"It doesn't matter. I'm not going to. Not this time. I'm gonna tell you something I never do. No. We're not doing this. Just because we have these feelings doesn't mean we have to act on them." 

"Fuck you, Dean! You fucking jerk!" Sam gets up too, stalks over to his brother. "You're such a bastard. Do you know what I felt when I came in? Terrified. I was terrified! You scared the fuck out of me. You're such an idiot!" He's as tall as Dean is, now, and any day he'll outgrow him. He grips Dean's arms hard enough to bruise. "You scare me so bad, and now, when I finally find out you feel the same, when I finally start thinking maybe I'm not such a sick freak, you won't...you won't even let me..." He's crying again. Sam rubs at his eyes furiously. "Damn you."

"You're not. I'm the sick one here." The anger has drained away, leaving Dean looking sad and ashamed. "This is my fault. I'm sorry, I know I've fucked up big time." 

He always does this, whenever there's trouble of any kind, Dean assumes responsibility for it, thinks that it's his fault. Even when it couldn't possibly be, he still tries to take all the blame. "What, you think you somehow perverted me or something? Made me have these feelings, these thoughts?" Dean's eyes, wide and guilty, said it all. "Goddamn it." Tears burn his eyes, still coming down despite his attempts to wipe them away. "No one _made_ me feel this way. It just happened. It's not like I woke up one morning and said to myself, 'oh, hey, I'm going to fall stupidly in love with my brother.' It just happened, and I didn't want to feel like this, I tried so, so hard to pretend that I didn't feel this way, that I didn't want you, but I'm done. I'm done pretending. This is me. If you're a sick fuckup, so am I. I love you too, and I have dreams about doing the dirtiest things with you. So before you condemn yourself, just know you'll be condeming me, too."

He steps back, watches Dean closely as his brother struggles with it. He can see it in Dean's expression, that unwillingness to think anything negative about Sam. That's the thing about Dean, he'll put himself down, talk about what a failure and fuckup he is, but he can't say the same about Sam. He just won't let himself. Now, he's having an internal battle.

Sam's hardly daring to breathe, on tenterhooks waiting to see what Dean will decide. Whether he'll let them have this or not. 

He knows the exact moment Dean gives in. His brother sags back against the wall, fight gone. Sam steps up to him again, cradling Dean's face in his hands, not making a move to kiss him just yet. "Are we gonna do this? Can't we try? I know it won't be easy for you, you've been fighting it so long, but we can take it as slow as you want, I swear, and if you'll just let yourself have something you want, for once..." 

He shuts up when Dean raises his own hand and wraps it around the back of Sam's neck, hesitance showing in every movement as he guides him forward slowly. Their lips meet, and it's so chaste it barely deserves to be called a kiss. Sam's impatient, wants to stick his hand down Dean's pants, feel him all hot and hard in his hand, but no, he promised. He knows something as drastic as trying to get under Dean's clothes will send his brother running for the hills. He's only just agreed to try this, and fuck, he had a gun in his mouth earlier. Dean admitted he hated himself for feeling this way, and it's going to take time to get past that. He's not going to be ready to start stripping any time soon. 

Dean draws back, looking intently into Sam's eyes for a second. "Okay?" He sounds nervous, but not like he's about to do a runner or reach for the nearest weapon.

Sam licks his lips, almost imagining he can taste Dean, but of course he can't, not from that innocent little kiss. "Okay."

Once he has verbal confirmation that he's not forcing Sam into anything he doesn't want, Dean tugs him back in for another kiss, a little less innocent. He suckles gently on Sam's lower lip, drawing a moan out of him. God, it's still closed-mouthed, but Dean is _so_ good at this. No wonder girls leap out of their panties for Dean. He has skills.

Dean's hand tightens on his neck at the sound, and he tilts Sam's chin with his other hand, angling his head the way he wants it, and _oh._ Yeah, that's good. It's beyond good. He forgets all about being impatient, forgets everything but Dean's lips and his hands, two burning points of contact where they rest on him. Time passes, he's not sure how long. Sam doesn't care; he could stay like this forever, kissing Dean, only stopping to breathe.

They break apart again for air, Dean letting his forehead rest against Sam's. "Sammy," he mutters, rubbing his shoulder through Sam's shirt. "This is, I'm. Not sure if I can, how far do you want to go?"

"Don't care," Sam says right away, shuddering under Dean's hands. "Doesn't matter, we can go however far and fast you want. This is good, just this is fine." He knows Dean will freak out if they move too fast, and he doesn't mind going slow anymore. If this is slow...

He can happily do this as long as Dean needs. It's not like it's a hardship or anything, and he'll do anything to keep Dean from bolting. Or, worse, getting ideas about guns again.

"Sorry. I'm worse than a skittish little virgin," Dean mutters self-deprecatingly, one of his hands daring to slide to Sam's back, rubbing slow circles like he did earlier when he was comforting him. It feels different now, his brother's touch raising goosebumps even through his shirt. 

"No, don't apologize, I know this isn't easy for you, Dean. You've been resisting it so hard, and you think you're sick, and horrible, but you gotta remember, I'm here too, with you."

Dean holds Sam closer, and when he speaks, the words are muffled against Sam's neck. "What if this doesn't work? Sammy, what if we try but it gets too awkward? What if we mess everything up?"

Hot breaths are hitting his skin. Sam closes his eyes for a second, lets himself appreciate the sensation. "Nothing has to change. This isn't awkward. It's what we both want, and it feels good. Feels right."

"Okay," Dean whispers, "Okay," then lifts his head and gives Sam another slow, sweet kiss. Except this time, he parts his lips.

Moaning in surprise, Sam pushes closer, as close as he can get. Their chests press together as he flicks his tongue out, testing Dean, wanting his reaction. Dean makes an encouraging noise, taking hold of his hips. Dean must've gotten a surge of bravery.

Dean tastes strange, not like Sam thought he would. The inside of his mouth tastes weirdly metallic. Sam gets sidetracked for a minute by the feeling of Dean's tongue sliding along his, but then he gets it.

He tastes like metal because he had the gun in his mouth earlier.

Sam's heart pounds faster at the reminder of just how close he came to losing Dean, and he kisses Dean harder, sucking almost viciously on his tongue, digging his fingers into Dean's shoulders.

Noticing the change, Dean pushes Sam away, holding him at arm's length and frowning. "What? Are you alright, Sam? Is this too much?"

It's not enough, truthfully, but Sam doesn't say that. "You taste like your goddamn gun, Dean." Dean's face falls. Sam sighs. "It just reminded me. Y'know. If I didn't come in sooner we wouldn't be standing here." He moves forward again. Dean tilts his head like he's anticipating another kiss, making a surprised noise when Sam wraps him up in a hug instead. 

Dean is hard against his hip, Sam realizes with a shock, squeezing him tighter at the realization. He did that to Dean. Just by kissing him. He made him that hard. Sam's dick wilted slightly when he realized Dean's mouth tasted like a gun, but it perks right up now. Dean's arms fold around him, and Sam relaxes. They're both sporting erections, maybe, but it's too soon for that. There's no real urgency there anyway. Sam's flying too high on having Dean simultaneously alive and like he's been dreaming for over a year.

"We're okay. I'm okay, everything is alright," Dean murmurs into his ear.

"Yeah. I know." Sam tucks his head into the crook of Dean's neck. He really does. He's not sure if Dean is a hundred percent okay with this new development in their relationship, if he's completely come to terms with how he feels and Sam feeling the same way, but they're gonna go slow.

Sam is gonna watch him like a hawk, and he's not going to do anything that makes him uncomfortable.

Dean's gentle as he slides out from between Sam and the wall and tugs on the bottom of his shirt, nodding at Sam's bed questioningly. "Nap?"

He's not actually tired, but he doesn't mind lying down with Dean for a while. At least, he hopes Dean is planning to 'nap' with him. Sam gets onto the bed, blowing out a breath when Dean climbs on after him.

There's an awkward, undignified shuffle as they figure out the best arrangement on the small bed. Dean finally just rolls his eyes and pulls Sam close to his chest. Sam manages to fit his head under Dean's chin despite them being the same height; he has to scrunch his legs up a bit, but it's worth it. Dean kisses his forehead, then closes his eyes.

He must have been at least a little tired, because he falls asleep quickly.

*

Dean wakes him up by letting the condensation on his freezing cold soda can drip onto Sam's forehead. He laughs gleefully when Sam flails upright, glaring, hair sticking up everywhere. "Dean! You jerk!"

"You love it, bitch." Great. Dean's back into obnoxious older brother mode, taking up his usual mission to aggravate Sam into insanity. Sam's actually worried he dreamed the events of the entire afternoon, until Dean's face softens and he smoothes his hair back, hesitating before gathering his courage and giving Sam a quick kiss. "You better get up, you probably have homework or something, and you need to eat dinner anyway."

Sam smiles dopily as Dean wanders out of the bedroom, falling back onto his pillows with a satisfied sigh. Dean was right, everything is okay. He glances at Dean's bedside. There's no sign of the gun.

He has homework to do, food to eat, a brother to annoy (and kiss.) Life is fucking awesome.


End file.
